Bespectacled: A Collection of Autor Drabbles
by Mouself
Summary: A small collection of short stories and drabbles featuring our favorite Drosselmeyer fanboy.
1. Why?

WARNING: SPOILERS!!

Disclaimer: Roses are red, violets are blue. Princess Tutu's not mine, and neither are you.

- - - - -

Autor was eight when he first heard the name: _Fakir_. It was a funny name, he thought, fit for a mystic, wise and mysterious.

Wise, because mystics were always wise. Mysterious, because that was how his parents spoke of Fakir, secretly, hidden in dark corners when they thought he wasn't listening.

Autor sometimes caught snippets of their conversations before they noticed he was there. He was a curious boy by nature--he often found ways to remain unnoticed.

Even so, he didn't understand them. They talked in hushed tones about Fakirs and ravens and stories and princes. The boy did not understand, and it fascinated him.

_Why is a raven like a writing desk?_

He'd read the question in a book once, and it had sprung unbidden to his mind as he listened. It was a silly question, he knew, but he couldn't help relating it to this mystery.

_Why is a raven like a writing desk?_

He repeated the question to himself, over and over, like one of the songs he so ardently banged out on his parent's piano.

_Why is a raven like a writing desk?_

Then, suddenly, his parents were gone, their existences snuffed out like candles--characters that were no longer needed.

And Autor was alone with his books and his piano. So he read every book he could obtain, and played every song he could learn, and never once wondered why things had happened as they did. But the question, the silly question, still echoed in his mind, harmonizing with his parents' funeral dirges.

_Why_ is_ a raven like a writing desk?_

Then he found the answer. It was simple, a single word.

Drosselmeyer.

- - Fin - -

Author's Note: Also, as an added disclaimer, the question "Why is a raven like a writing desk?" is from Lewis Carrol's _Alice in Wonderland_. I did not make it up, and, no, "Drosselmeyer" is not the answer. There actually is no answer, though some people out there have certainly tried. Ah well.

Constructive criticism is greatly appreciated in any circumstance, but just any review will make me very happy! Thank you for reading!


	2. A Fluke

WARNING: SPOILERS!!

Disclaimer: Princess Tutu and all characters therein are copyright ADV Films.

- - - - -

Autor realized with a start that he was smiling. He rarely smiled, but there it was--a thin smile that had crept its way onto his face without his knowledge. It was odd, he mused, shoving his glasses up on his nose thoughtfully.

"You really need to stop doing that," his shorter companion said emphatically. "Pushing your glasses up like that. You're going to get smudges all over them."

"It's a habit," he argued, pointedly adjusting the spectacles. He shooed a fly away from his bologna sandwich and took a bite. The smile was gone, just as suddenly and quietly as it had come. Pity.

"Then we'll just have to break it," the girl pronounced stubbornly, nodding her dark-haired head for added effect. Autor gave some cynical response and continued his meal.

He'd eaten lunch outside much more often since he met Pike. It was strange; he didn't usually enjoy the outdoors. He preferred quiet, enclosed places, like the library. But when he ate with Pike, it never mattered whether he particularly enjoyed himself or not. It was refreshing in a way change his routines. He assumed it was just one of life's many quirks.

Meeting Pike too was a quirk, a fluke for which he was eternally grateful. The girl had always taken a fancy to Fakir, so when a school dance sprung up that required girls to ask the boys, Fakir was naturally her first choice. And just as naturally, the former knight had turned her down, sarcastically suggesting she ask "some idiot like Autor." (Well, he hadn't actually been there, but surely that was something like what Fakir had said.)

Autor was still unsure of why precisely he'd accepted her invitation. Maybe it was the looks of disgust he received from every other girl or the whispers of "that weird Autor kid" he heard around campus. Maybe he had latched onto the first sign of affection from the fairer sex.

Or maybe it was the fact that she'd pulled him by the arm out of the library when he was too stunned to respond.

After that it had been clockwork.

She taught him--well, dragged him through, in any case--a few dance steps, though he wasn't all that good at it. There was a reason why he played an instrument that required sitting down, he had sardonically told her. She'd cheerfully encouraged him--and her friend Lilie just as cheerfully informed him of his imminent failure. (He never really got used to Lilie. She reminded him eerily of Drosselmeyer, only short, female, and not half as brilliant.)

Then she never went away. When he went to the library to study, she wandered in to ask him what he was doing. When he found a quiet lesson room to practice piano, she stood over his shoulder and stared in awe at his hands flying across the keys. He couldn't seem to get rid of the silly dark-haired girl--but then, he wasn't sure he really wanted to.

Around most people Autor was snobbish, aloof, and arrogant. It wasn't that he _tried_ to be those things; he was more intelligent than they, and there was no talking to stupid people who thought they were smart.

Around Pike, however, he was different. Maybe that was why he could not keep her away; she offered him a respite, a change, if only for a short moment. He didn't have to talk constantly to convince himself of his own knowledge and superiority. He didn't have to look at everyone like they were something he'd found under his shoe. He didn't have to be so obsessed with Drosselmeyer. He didn't have to be Autor. Just for a moment, he could relax and _smile_.

It wasn't long before Autor recognized the affection for her that had bloomed deep in his chest, though at first he had no name for it. "Did you hear? That funny Autor kid has the biggest crush on Pike from the ballet division" were the whispers around school.

Did he love her, Autor wondered? Was this strange elation he felt around her the emotion of love?

No, he decided. He'd felt love before--it thudded in his heart like a lead weight, and pierced him like a knife when the beautiful black-haired girl had laughed at him and turned him away. No, this was not love.

Then what?

And there on the school grounds, as he looked impassively at the bologna sandwich, he knew: he was _happy_.

- - Fin - -

A/N: This fic was inspired by a random little sketch of Autor and Pike by serika-san on the LiveJournal Princess Tutu community. I'd link to it here, but I think the fanfiction staff might get mad at me. Also, they apparently don't like underscores. Hm. Oh well.

Constructive criticism is always welcome, and reviewers are individually given cyber-cookies.


	3. Happy Endings

WARNING: SPOILERS!!

Disclaimer: Me? Own Princess Tutu? Surely you jest.

- - - - -

"Papa? Why are there crows at my window?"

The man smiled down at his small son, tucked snuggly in his bed.

"They're not crows, Autor," he explained, "They're ravens. See, they're bigger than crows."

The black birds sitting ominously on the window sill cocked their heads.

"But why are they here, Papa?"

The boy looked at him, hazel eyes full of innocent curiosity.

"They're..." The man paused uneasily. "I don't know why they're here, Autor. Now how would you like me to tell you a story? Will that make you feel better?"

The boy nodded, his disheveled mop of blue-gray hair falling into his face.

"Tell me the one about the boy who wrote stories, Papa!"

The man leaned over to brush a tangled lock out of the boy's face.

"Once upon a time, there was a very clever little boy named Autor. One day, he saw a swan flying overhead.

"'What are you doing here?' he asked the swan, and the swan replied 'I have traveled across the sea seven times, and now I seek someone to give my magical feather. Whoever takes it must do something wondrous with it.'

"'I will take your magical feather,' Autor said, 'I will make it into a pen and write a wonderful story, about a prince and a princess and an evil villain.' The story, the swan thought, was quite grand, and so she gave him her feather, and he made a pen from it, for he was a very clever boy.

"He wrote a magnificent story, and the magical feather made the story come true. The prince sought out the princess, and the princess was captured, and the villain grew more evil and more powerful. The people in his town were frightened; surely they would be gobbled up by the monster! But Autor was not afraid. He wrote a happy ending for the story, and so his ending too came true. The townspeople thanked him, telling him 'Oh, what a clever boy you are!' and 'My, we could have done nothing without you!'

"The little boy's mother and father were very proud of him. And they lived happily ever after."

The boy's eyes were closed, his chubby face wrinkled in a sleepy smile. His father placed a light kiss on his forehead and left, blowing out the lamp.

- - - - -

Autor stared at Fakir's back, idly watching the folds of his shirt shift as his hand scratched out the words of a story. It was the story his father had told him about, so long ago. The story he, _Autor_, was supposed to write. The happy ending he was supposed to give to the thankful townspeople.

But these townspeople were not thankful. They had turned into crows, attacked him with an ax, shown every sign possible that this was not the ending they wanted.

This story didn't want to end happily. Autor knew it. Did Fakir? Either he didn't know, or didn't care.

Autor wondered how this story would end, passed down as a fairytale to posterity. He thought he could guess:

"Then the boy named Autor died, and his memory faded away, for he was all along a very silly little boy."

- - Fin - -

A/N: Meep. This one is so depressing... Waaaah!

Once again, reviews are welcomed with open arms, and constructive criticism is greedily requested with shifty, mildly psychotic eyes.


	4. Bespectacled

WARNING: SPOILERS!!

Disclaimer: If you think I own Princess Tutu, you must be a very silly person.

- - - - -

"Autor, you need to loosen up."

Those were the words Pike had spoken last week during lunch. Autor had nearly choked on a mouthful of biscuit when she said it. (Lilie, of course, had expressed her deepest hope that he would _actually_ choke, but he decided it was best to ignore her.)

"Loosen up?" was his surprised response.

"Sure," she had explained, violet eyes twinkling as they did when she was enthusiastic about something. "You're always so uptight, you know, reading in the library, combing your hair, practicing the piano for hours. You should get out and have fun sometimes!"

He remembered giving her a sarcastic response about fun being over-rated, and the conversation was forgotten... for a week, that is.

Now he stood in his house in front of his full-length mirror, Pike beaming behind him. It was a usual position for him, minus the girl; he often found himself checking his appearance for imperfections, straightening his collar, smoothing his hair out of his face, properly ruffling his crisp ascot.

But the boy in the mirror was not the one he usually saw staring back at him. This boy squinted, for one thing--Pike had confiscated his glasses, saying he looked "nicer" without them. He had yet to figure out if she meant he looked _kinder_ or if she was actually complimenting his looks. (He assumed it was the former; he had never been blessed by handsome features.)

The boy's whole wardrobe was different as well. His hair was Autor's normal color, but slightly messy; it was neither unbearably slatternly nor satisfyingly perfect. His shirt was an Oxford--it was the only sort he had--but it was a bit too large for his narrow frame, and the top button had been deliberately left undone. The sleeves were long, but they had been rolled up over his arms, since it was late spring and the weather was warming. Such conditions were the reason behind the final addition to the boy's attire: a pair of khaki short pants that had been stuffed away in an old trunk.

_Shorts?! _Autor had forgotten he even _owned_ shorts.

"This is loosening up?" he asked dubiously, turning from the mirror. He was thankful his near-sighted condition had not yet gotten too bad; he could still see Pike as a blurry dark-haired form when she was a few feet from him.

"Well, don't you feel more relaxed?" she asked rhetorically, obviously pleased with her little experiment. Autor raised an eyebrow quizzically, reaching up to brush some hair out of his face, and said in his most obnoxious voice:

"I don't really see how this is supposed to--"

"Hey, we should go outside!"

She interrupted him again. She had a habit of doing that when he used that tone, as if anything he said after that arrogant cock of his head and the slight curl of his lips was not worth hearing. (Though, it probably wasn't, he knew.)

"Outside?" he inquired in exasperation. "Looking like _this_?"

"Why not?"

_Good point. Sort of._ "But I can't even _see_!"

"All the better. Then you won't notice if people give you weird looks. Which they won't."

He couldn't see her face well, but she sounded smug, and he could just envision that triumphant gleam in her eyes. He could argue. He could refuse. He could put his foot down, demand she return his glasses, and go on with his life the way it was.

"Fine," he sighed. "I'll go."

He _could_. But he wouldn't.

Minutes later, he found himself outside his house, only about twenty feet from the front door. A handful of villagers and shoppers wandered the streets, smears of moving color to his vision. He shuffled uncomfortably; his shins felt strange when uncovered in the warm air, and he knew his arms were dreadfully pale. But as far as he could tell, there were no heads turned in his direction, and he could hear no whispers or murmurs from the colored smudges.

"Hey, Autor?" Pike said, poking him in the arm to get his attention. "I'm gonna go get some ice cream. See you!"

"Hey!" Autor protested, "What about me?" But the girl was gone, probably off on another of her little plots. Hey, wait... He frowned, recalling something he'd seen in the semi-clarity of his peripheral vision just before Pike had run off. Was she _wearing_ his glasses? He sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose (mostly because it was the only thing to do in absence of the spectacles).

Well, he might as well do something instead of just stand around. Pike was supposedly at the ice cream shop--he would go there.

Ten feet farther, and he looked around, slightly surprised; he'd lived in this neighborhood his whole life, seen these streets a thousand times, yet he still found himself squinting at signs, trying to read the ornate black lettering common in the town. One sign was giving him a particularly hard time. He didn't realize he'd continued to walk without taking his eyes from the sign until--

_Wham!_

"Oof!"

He ran into someone. Someone's back, to be precise. Someone with dark hair in a loose ponytail--_oh great_.

He'd just run into _Fakir?!_

"_Autor?_"

He couldn't see the knight's face too well after stumbling back a few feet, but he could hear from Fakir's voice that he was just as stunned as Autor was.

"Uh," he stammered, searching his mind for an alibi. There was a pause, during which Autor wished terribly that he could see Fakir's face.

"No..." the knight finally decided. "No, you're not him. Sorry about that; I thought you were someone I know."

And with that Fakir turned and walked away, the incident forgotten. Autor stood in confused and surprised silence until Pike returned with the ice cream.

- - - - -

Later that night, Autor had all but forgotten the day's events. The grandfather clock was tolling ten o'clock, and he was shuffling through the house with a before-bed cup of tea.

His glasses once again rested astutely on his nose. His hair was neatly combed, with only a few strands that were allowed out of place because of the late hour. His nightclothes fit as they should, clean and pressed and every button tightly in place.

He was back to being Autor.

He sat down in a red wing-backed armchair, blowing softly on the steaming cup. It was good to be back. He brought up to his lips--but paused.

A boy stared at him for a second time that day from the long sheet of glass on the wall about four feet away. This boy was the one he was used to seeing, neat and refined and stiff like his white nightshirt and pants. But the face was what struck him now; he rarely looked at his _face_ in the mirror, he realized.

The face was round but not chubby, and pale without being sallow. The eyebrows were arched proudly. The lips were pressed into a thin line, as closed and disdainful as his demeanor. The eyes were dark, the color indistinguishable: _hazel?_ he guessed. Yes, hazel. Not brown, not gray, not blue--just indifferent, impersonal hazel. A thin hand reached up to push the round spectacles up on his nose, and he was suddenly aware of a subtle haughtiness in the gesture.

He tore his gaze from the boy in the mirror and looked down at his lap, where the cup in his hand had lowered. His tea was getting cold.

He stared at the teacup. It was made of clay; the outside was glazed white, dainty flowers painted with precise detail across the surface. The inside, however, was the cup's natural brown, stained darker in several places from teas and coffees over many years.

Suddenly, Autor got up and went to the mirror, taking the cup with him. With his free hand he pulled off his glasses and again peered into the glass for several minutes.

... He _did_ look nicer without them.

- - Fin - -

A/N: Wow, this one is long. I hardly know what to do with it, it's so long.

Yaaaaaaaaay, more slightly PikexAutor fluff. Of some sort. w00t. Anyhoo, you know the drill; reviews are requested, constructive criticism is smiled upon. And bars of gold are _really _smiled upon... eh? Eeeh?

Also, because I somehow forgot in previous chapters: thank you, thank you, thank you to HaleySings, my most wonderful of beta-readers! Everyone give her a trophy, because without her you wouldn't have half of these stories.


	5. Israfel

WARNING: SPOILERS!!

Disclaimer: I don't own Princess Tutu. _How many times must I tell you?!_ (end Autor voice)

_ In Heaven a spirit doth dwell  
"Whose heartstrings are a lute";  
__ None sing so wildly well  
As the angel Israfel,  
And the giddy stars (so legends tell),  
Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell  
Of his voice, all mute.  
_

_ -- _Edgar Allan Poe, "Israfel"

_ - - - - -_

Autor dropped onto the black bench with a sigh. He stared sullenly at the blank reef of papers in his hand, then at the books in his satchel, which had fallen to the floor, half-opened.

He had tried to write a story once again--once again, he had failed. He didn't understand it. Fakir was able to write, but only when it was about the clumsy duck-like girl who was his muse. Fakir had an inspiration, a reason to whom he could devote his heart and his power. Fakir was in love, and so he was able to write.

Autor could not write. He felt the pain of love thudding in his chest, yet he could not write. He remembered all too clearly the scent of her hair and the feel of her head on his chest and the pounding of his heart, yet he could not write. He still saw in his mind's eye the black-haired girl telling him that yes, he _was_ the one to change the world, envisioned the mysterious gleam in her crimson eyes, yet he _could not write_.

She was sensual, but still in a way innocent. She was beautiful, but in a way that had nothing to do with the soft curls of her hair or the delicate slant of her eyes. She was... _magnificent_.

Autor swore and shoved the papers in his fists down upon the first available solid object. A loud cacophony emerged from bowels of the instrument as paper and flesh made forceful contact with white ivory. He immediately pulled his hands from the keys, a few papers floating out of his grasp and onto the floor.

His eyes caught on the last single sheet, clasped so tightly in his hands that it was beginning to wrinkle and tear. A tiny ink blotch was the only taint on the white surface, a failed attempt at writing.

Hands shaking, the boy took his pen from his satchel and slowly drew a line across the small stain--a quarter note... No. No, not a quarter note. The pen's tip flicked again, and the ink stain became an eighth note with an elegant flag.

Autor gently placed the paper on the bench beside him and set his hands in their familiar place on the piano keys. Suddenly, the feelings that had stagnated in ink now flowed out of his fingers in music.

_One, two, three, one, two, three,_ tapped his foot on the floor, keeping time with the wild melodies that sprung forth from the strings into the air. C chord, G minor third, switch fingering here, crossover the thumb in the left hand there, broken chord on the right with a augmented fifth in the left. The music was discordant at times, melodious at others, vibrant, trembling, impassioned.

He could not write.

But he would compose.

- - - - -

_If I could dwell  
Where Israfel  
Hath dwelt, and he where I,  
He might not sing so wildly well  
A mortal melody,  
While a bolder note than this might swell  
From my lyre within the sky.  
_

-- Edgar Allan Poe, "Israfel"

- - Fin - -

A/N: Gwee. This turned out a bit different than I had hoped. Oh well. It's close enough to my original plan. Yay Autor angst?

I figured I needed to remind myself that Autor _has_ a "One True Love," so to speak, what with all these AutorxPike-esque fics that I'm so fond of writing. Because what's Autor without his one-sided AutorxRue angst? Not Autor, that's for sure.

Anyway, once again, feel free to comment, critique, or just make snide remarks. Any sort of feedback is greatly appreciated. Thank you!


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